Something About Men and Islands
by Victoria LeRoux
Summary: John's learned how to roll with the punches, if only because life never gave him a choice. (A "five times John got beaten up" fic, in which he learns a bit about taking a hit and a lot about the concept of having people to rely on.)


Warnings for child abuse, violence. One of those "V sat down to watch a TV show and wrote some fic in that hour" fics. Sadly unbetaed, but c'est la vie. Thanks for all the positive feedback on my last Constantine fic! I am dead after the last episode, but seeing as I wrote this while that one aired, it doesn't really draw from there. Some pre-series, some not. Bit of everything, lots of whump.

A "five times John got beaten up" fic, in which he learns a bit about taking a hit and a lot about having people to rely on.

* * *

_One._

"You can't keep doing this, Johnny-boy," Cheryl said with a laugh as the car hit a particularly deep bump, jarring all the bumps and bruises on his body, and sending John into a cursing fit.

"Why not?" John grumbled in return, crossing his arms and wincing as his broken arm throbbed in pain. When she turned in the driver's seat to look at him, John stubbornly looked away until she gave up and focused once more on the road. He liked it better that way, it was easier to play the dunce when she was focusing on not pancaking them both against the wall.

"You can't just let them hit you," she shot back. "That's stupid." _You're stupid_, her tone said, in that big sister trying not to bash her head against the dashboard way she had.

"You think I want them to hit me?" John snapped, and for a moment, he basked the anger that let him urge the other boys on. He'd goaded them, sure, but that didn't mean he'd just stood there and let them _hit_ him. He was insulted that she'd presume anything different.

"I think you don't know what you want," Cheryl replied, with that damnable calm that got her through their father's rages. "I think that you don't know if you want to be liked or hated, and you don't know how to get the first to happen."

John clenched his good fist, feeling the bites of his nails into the palm of his left hand. She was wrong, she really was – he didn't need anyone to like him. He didn't want anyone to like him. Liking someone meant that they could be taken away, could walk away, could _leave_ him.

"I think," she continued when it was clear John had no interest in replying, "that Dad's supposed to like us and he doesn't, so you don't think anyone can either."

"Dad's _dad_," John objected. "He doesn't like anyone, and we'd be stupid to think otherwise."

"It isn't what I'm talking about," Cheryl replied. "What did you pick the fight for, anyway?"

"They were going to hurt someone. What was I supposed to do, stand there and watch them pick on a second grader?"

"You're ten, kid," she said, and there was that _little brother, you're an idiot_ voice. "Don't go picking fights you can't win."

"How am I supposed to know that in advance?" he grumbled before he could stop himself. Honestly, it was a valid question. It wasn't as though he could walk up and nicely ask them to stop. Never worked for Dad, never would work for anything else.

That made Cheryl laugh. "Get stronger, so you can beat anyone. Get more knowledgeable, so you know when to run."

John settled back into his seat, watching the city fly by through the window. Cheryl really shouldn't have been speeding – she didn't even have a license yet – but he couldn't bring himself to ask her to stop. Even though it'll bring them back home faster, it's exhilarating to watch the lights whip past them. He does hiss as the car jarred again when she hit a curb, pain gnawing at his ribs.

Get stronger. Beat them. Get smarter. Run.

John could learn to do that. How hard could it be?

* * *

_Two. _

He was an idiot.

He should have gotten out when he could, really he should have but he'd screwed up – had thought himself smarter than he was. Normally, it wouldn't be much of a problem but…

_Cheryl's gone,_ Dad said, and his cigarette butt scorched John's skin. John didn't yell – this time. Last time, his dad had just started on the insults sooner when he'd started yelling. Sometimes the insults distracted him from the pain, but John still hadn't learned how to shut his mouth. Didn't really want to. It helped to have something he could control during nights like this.

_Cheryl's gone,_ Dad said, and kicked him in the ribs.

John rolled over and got to his feet, cursing and groaning. "Thanks, old man. Glad to know you still c-"

His dad slammed him into the wall, and it wasn't in any way close to being a fair match. John was fourteen and his dad was a man in his prime –

-but he was also a drunk, and being drunk meant he was off balance, which John could use.

_Cheryl's gone,_ Dad said. _And you let her leave._

This time, John pushed back, let his dad stagger back. "I didn't let her leave!" he yelled before he could stop the words. "Don't you think I would have stopped her if I could?"

Maybe he would have, because John couldn't face this without her. He needed her, his crutch, because unlike him, she knew when it was best to keep her mouth shut. Unlike him, she knew how to twist words and diffuse the most volatile situations.

The one person he thought he could rely on and she walked away and _John couldn't even get mad over it._ If he had the chance she did, he would've walked too. He would've walked, but he wouldn't have let his sister behind.

"I think that you told her to go," their – his, Cheryl's gone – dad slurred as he pushed forward once again. This time, John didn't fight back as his dad pinned him against the wall. Fighting back… it made it worse. He'd learned that, or he'd tried to learn that, even if he couldn't always stop his mouth from running off in the end.

His dad hit him and John gasped for breath as his air was cut off. Maybe it was time to stop fighting, maybe it was time to –

_You still have things left to do_, he heard a whisper through his mind.

_Cheryl's gone,_ he said back. The one person he could always count on had walked away without a second glance. Hadn't even invited him along.

_You're not,_ came the reply.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't do this, he didn't _want_ to do this –

He saw stars at his head hit the wall, again and this was going to be it, this was going to be the time his father went too far and killed him and –

_No. _

It was like a new strength infused his limbs, and this time John kicked up, hitting and busting his father's kneecap. There was an odd cracking noise, but John didn't wince. His father didn't deserve his sympathy.

"No," John snapped. _Get stronger, so you can fight anyone._ "I didn't tell her to leave, but I wish I had."

His father cursed at him, and John reached over to grab a bottle of whiskey. He put it in his father's hand before he started to move away, back to his room and his books. "That should help dull the pain a little, yeah?"

Cheryl was gone, and soon he would be too.

* * *

_Three._

"Honestly," John drawled. "You'd think that you'd be a little more grateful that I just exorcised your bar, mate."

He ducked a pool cue and laughed as it knocked a beer off the counter. The container fell to the floor, breaking and sending shards of glass skittering across the grimy area.

"C'mon, think this through. I don't even need a thank you, just a drink is fine."

He dodged the next item sent his way, tripping as he lost his balance, and his head made friends with the bar. Maybe he'd also had a little too much to drink before he'd dispelled the curse, but _honestly._

Someone grabbed him, sent him crashing back to the floor. Glass crunched under his jacket, nipping through his shirt at his back. He'd have to send it to that good cleaners later, hope they were good with getting out blood because –

_Shit_. He rolled out of the way as someone threw an actual curse at him.

That changed things. Apparently, he hadn't done his research all that well, if the owners had enough magic to throw actual curses at him and John grimaced. "That was a _nasty_ bugger," he complained loudly. "Really, trying to remove my tonsils?"

It was easy enough to start gathering his own power, to begin a chant to stun the woman trying to… curse him with hangnails? Honestly, where did the people come up with this bull? What was not easy, however, was keeping control of his power when a chair hit him dead in the back.

The magic backlashed, all the gathered power whipping back through his body and scorching him in the process. _Need to make an amulet for that,_ he noted, something to dispel and gather the energy just in case this ever happened again. John gasped, barely stopping himself from falling face first into a table.

She was screaming at him in Spanish, calling him everything from a demon fucker to saying his father had -

"That wasn't very nice," he frowned. "Really, my father wasn't _that_ bad. Maybe a little lacking on the TLC but isn't everyone these days?"

She stood over him, and the hairs on his neck rose as she gathered her own power. John watched as she opened her mouth, pointing at him with her ring finger and then…

The woman dropped like a bag of rocks.

"I know you," John said in faint surprise. "Did I sleep with your girlfriend?"

The man – built like an oak, that one – just stared at him and said, "No."

"It's what… Chris? Caspian?"

"Chas."

"You don't look like a Chas," John said as the man reached down and hauled him upright. John didn't try to stop his head from flopping forward. Maybe he did hit the table and didn't remember it. John did a lot of things he didn't remember, sometimes. Usually got hit for his trouble. Speaking of trouble… "Any idea why she took the exorcism so personally?"

"She liked him," was the man's reply. "Helped keep tips running."

John considered that. "Oh," he said, and then threw up. Chas – he'd have to remember that name, it was only polite considering he just vomited all over his shoes – to his credit, didn't comment.

"Hospital?" the man asked.

John considered. Broken ribs, concussion, and – ow, his back reminded him ever so politely about the glass.

"You volunteering? I haven't done yoga in a while, going to be hard to reach my back."

And that's how John ended up laying in the bed of a truck with glass shards being picked out of his back. Still, it was nice not to have to do it himself.

Later, when John felt more drunk than concussed, he said something of that extent to Chas. To his dismay, he couldn't get rid of the man afterwards.

* * *

_Four. _

He was… floaty.

The thought made him laugh. _Floaty._ Like when he'd fallen into the English Channel on a field trip and almost drowned back in primary. He was _floaty_ to the point of drowning.

"John?"

He stumbled slightly on the threshold, almost braining himself on the door when he tried to shut it and fell into it in the process. After a moment's consideration, it was too much effort to keep himself upright and he toppled over. He laughed when he hit the ground, knowing that later he'd feel the bruises with a vengeance, but for now just settling to be amused at his clumsiness.

"John, what the hell?"

"I'm floaty, Zed," he replied, carefully separating each word so he didn't slur.

"Sure, John," she agreed in that amiable way of hers that meant she was just humoring the crazy man. "You're floaty."

John let his head tip against the wood, cracking an eye – when did he shut them – to stare at her. "I'm going to throw up," he announced. "You probably don't want to touch me."

To her credit, she didn't sigh. Instead, a bucket appeared under his chin just in time for him to gag. "When did I teach you to do that?" he asked. Magic had to be the explanation.

"You didn't," came the instant reply. "Chas warned me about this."

The light sensation was drifting away, replaced by nausea and a heavy, heavy sensation. John's head spun like a spider in a strong breeze, whipped around on the edge of a thread. He shook his head quickly, but it just made the sensation worse.

"Bout what?" he asked, and when had he started to gasp? "Never managed to do this before."

He threw up, and this time missed a fair amount of the bucket.

"You getting drunk. Not every night, but when something you don't like happens."

Ouch. That hurt. That also probably true for most nights, now that he analyzed his past behavior. John mulled it over, and then promptly decided he didn't want to think about it.

"Drunk?" That didn't sound right. No… he wasn't drunk. He was… he had been... something. He had been something. What had he been doing? Did it matter?

"John!" Zed's voice broke through his thoughts and he opened his eyes, if only to glare at her.

"I'm _thinking_," he replied, each word a fight to voice. No, he wasn't drunk, he wasn't. Being drunk wouldn't make his blood feel like fire burning in his veins, wouldn't make him unsteady and uncertain and emotional and… floaty.

Shit. Shit. _Shit._ He'd experienced this before, but _when?_

"John!" something cracked across his face, and his eyes snapped open again, an action that was getting annoying. For a moment, the pain focused him enough to see Zed staring at her hand like a snake had just bitten it. Maybe it had. John checked to make sure he hadn't accidentally conjured one.

"John Constantine," Zed said forcefully.

"You sound like Cheryl. She's dead, you know. You probably don't want to sound like her. Might not be good for long-term health," John told her, then snapped his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to say that, he wasn't supposed to say that –

Why was Zed looking at him like that?

"Why-"

"What happened?" Zed asked. John just stared at her. He didn't know, there was a blank in his memory, and he held up a shaking hand.

She laid her fingertips against his, and he watched her face grow white. She started to tremble, and he vaguely had a feeling that it should matter what she saw. John let his hand drop. Didn't matter. Not much that mattered anymore.

"You've been drugged," Zed said. "I…"

Zed, too, threw up. At least he wasn't alone in this. Being drugged… made sense. Someone wanted to cut him off from magic? That sounded right. Enough drugs made it impossible to focus, and that would stop any magic user from reciting the ABC's.

"I'm going to move you to your room," she said. "You can sleep it off."

Sleep sounded good. Really good, actually. "I'm fine, love," he said, and this time he forgot to keep his words steady.

"Sure you are," she agreed easily, "Try not to vomit on my boots when I pick you up."

He did try, hard enough that he only got the one shoe. He was shaking all over, making it almost impossible for Zed to keep a grip on him. The first step was the worst – it made it feel like he was on the deck of a ship in a storm, the ground bucking under his feet. Or a hamster wheel, maybe, sliding around every time he took a step.

At some point, John blinked and magically appeared at the side of the bed. Maybe he'd done a spell on accident, because the next thing he knew, he was staring at an ugly wall in desperate need of repainting.

There was the sound of footsteps, and Zed came into view. "Go to sleep," she ordered. "I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

_Five._

Couldn't trust anyone, John realized as he slid down the wall. Couldn't trust your sister, couldn't trust your friends, couldn't trust the Catholic nun.

Honestly, nuns with guns. That had to be breaking a commandment. John didn't have them all memorized, but he was pretty sure _don't kill_ was on the list. Shooting people and leaving them behind probably broke that one.

Couldn't blame her, though. John had done a lot to deserve that, even if most of it wasn't recent.

John hit the ground, gasping for breath. There was no point in trying to hide, not now. He could taste his own blood in his mouth, could smell the acrid tang that meant he probably didn't have long even without being torn apart.

_Gunna cry, Johnny-boy?_ Someone asked, and a child's laugh echoed in his mind.

Nah, not this time. Even though he didn't want to die, it wasn't worth crying over. John Constantine was certainly not a human being anyone should waste tears on. At least the kid had gotten out, he supposed. Manny would probably be here in a few minutes, would probably look at him with disapproving _how'd you manage to get shot_ eyes and then carry his soul up and away.

Cheryl had always been good at that expression – not over getting shot, but that exasperated, _what the hell did you get into_ look. Not surprising Manny would have it too, except that made Manny a hypocrite because most of the time, it was him sending John into trouble.

Trouble. Something was wrong about that idea. Why'd Manny send John into trouble in the first place, wasn't like John –

Shit. He couldn't die, not now with his soul damned to hell. The thought motivated John, made him start moving.

_You still have things to do, John Constantine,_ he told himself. Didn't matter if the first time he'd heard the words had been because Manny said them or he thought them, they were just as true now as they were then. He couldn't die, not now, because if he died now…

Get stronger. Beat them. Get smarter. Run.

He couldn't beat them, not now. He was pretty sure there was a saying for scenarios like this, even if most people didn't imagine it involved selling himself further up the river in the process.

Couldn't beat them, not now. Not with a bullet hole in his side and a bullet bouncing around in his body. Not with a monster seconds away, ready to tear him into pieces. Couldn't run, either, not after said injury. Besides, running would leave it free to go after Anne-Marie.

Can't beat them? Join them. He'd heard it somewhere, and it was his last shot. Eleventh hour attempt, because maybe, just maybe, John could trust his friends enough to get him out of this. They hadn't let him down, not yet, and they'd die before they did.

John Constantine had always been good at that. Had always been good at getting followers and letting them hang themselves with their own rope. No time to think about it, not now.

John began to chant, and then, John welcomed the demon into his body.

* * *

_And one._

Somehow he'd ended up like… _this_.

Cheryl – no, his _father_ – would laugh to see him now. Somehow, John Constantine had ended up fighting a battle against the forces of hell with people at his side.

People he trusted, even. That was more surprising than the 'forces of hell' bit in his mind.

It was funny, John Constantine thought, how things could change so much and honestly not change at all.

Still, introspection was nice and all, but that didn't help him against the ghoul currently squatting on his chest. It screeched at him, and he chanted faster – a last ditch effort, sure, but his magic hadn't failed him yet. Well, usually didn't fail him.

The ghoul's claws raked at his coat, sparking against some of the magic he'd woven into it for basic protection. For a moment, his old spells hold, then the talons rake through the fabric and strike at his chest.

"I just gto that fixed," he groused when he had to pause between stanzas, and then he was almost at the end –

But he didn't need to be, because a shot rang out and the monster sprang away.

John lay still on the concrete, catching his breath. The ghoul was whimpering now rather than shrieking, and after a moment it stopped abruptly. The smell of smoke made him desperately wish for a smoke, but he was content to just wait a moment for his body to stop reminding him that he wasn't happy with how he'd been treating it lately.

"You look awful," Chas pointed out as a hand was thrust into his face. John took the offered hand, hauling himself upright and maybe needing the help to stop from tipping back over.

"Always can count on you for a laugh," John replied. Zed raised an eyebrow, and he rolled his eyes. "Not you too," he complained, discretely checking both of them over for any sign of injury. Neither of them looked like they were going to collapse, so he returned his concentration to not falling over.

"What are you looking at?" he grumbled when he almost fell over. Maybe he'd just… sit down for a bit. Catch his breath a little more.

They both laughed at him, the damn traitors, as he sat down with a thud.

"Not like you bloody helped at all," he grumbled.

"Not at all," Chas agreed.

Zed picked up from where he left off. "We didn't track down where the ghoul was staying, have visions leading us here, donate any blood to a binding. No, we were pretty useless."

"Exactly," John agreed, fumbling for his cigarettes.

"Those will kill you, you know," Zed pointed out.

John paused, lighter in hand and cigarette dangling out of his mouth. "I'll take my bloody chances," he muttered.

"You're getting old, Constantine," she continued. "Lung cancer is a serious probl-"

_Old?_ He was certainly not getting old. John narrowed his eyes and lit up, drawing in a long breath of smoke and coughing as his aching ribs protested.

Zed muttered something suspicious, and John glared at her. Chas gave him a deadpan look.

_Traitors._ He'd have to watch his back. If hell didn't get him, then these two just might. The nagging was almost enough to make him reconsider the whole _people at his side_ bit.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

I have plot bunnies after that last episode feels fest lurking in my head, which means that I somehow managed to get sucked fully into this fandom right before the finale. Blerg. At some point this weekend I'll have to do another tag.

Do consider leaving a review? Thanks for reading?


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